The Nibiru Effect

Memory 7

I study the symbol. It's grey instead of black, almost as if someone tried to wash it away with bleach, but otherwise, it's identical to mine.

What does it mean? Why does this woman bear the same mark as me? Who is she? These are only some of the questions that bounce around my head.

It takes a while, but I eventually manage to tear my gaze from the woman's arm, only to find her staring at my own wrist. The look of disbelief that deforms her traits proves she's just as shocked as me.

I'm about to ask who she is when a man's voice fills the air.

"We should go." At first, I don't understand where the voice is coming from, but then I spot him. He stands behind the woman, his face twisted into a permanent scowl. I can't tell if the effect is natural or the result of a horrible accident, but it doesn't matter.

The woman hesitates. It's not until the echo of footsteps reaches us that she finally makes up her mind. With a final glance in my direction, she runs off, the scowling man close in pursuit.

I wonder who they're running from.

I pry myself off the ground, only to see a massive shape fill my vision. I barely have time to identify it as a man before he barrels into me.

I go flying for the second time in less than a minute and end up right back on the ground. This time there's no explosion of pain, but the force of the impact is enough to stun me.

The man pauses long enough for me to notice his crew cut and bulging muscles. His salt and pepper hair and matching beard stubble do little to attenuate the effect achieved by his erect posture and the massive burn marks that riddle his right arm. There's no doubt in my mind he's a soldier.

Trailing close behind the hulking military figure is a beautiful young woman. She's about my age, though, if I had to guess, I'd say she's a year older than me. She looks like a living, breathing Barbie doll. Long blond hair. Blue eyes you can get lost in. Curves that would make a supermodel jealous. In other words, she's the girl of my dreams.

The soldier rushes on without so much as an apology. His partner halts and gives me an apologetic smile. She offers me a hand, which I hesitantly take, and pulls me to my feet with surprising ease. She may appear delicate, but she's quite strong.

"Sorry," she says. I can't identify the dialect she uses, yet I have no trouble understanding her.

I'm about to tell her she's not to blame when she runs off. I can't help staring as her hips sway from side to side, but I forget all about that when I notice the gun in her hand. It's unlike any of the weapons I have seen in movies, yet there's no doubt in my mind it's a pistol. Her grey-haired partner is also armed. In fact, he's in the process of pointing his weapon at the scar lady and her scowling partner. They're nearing the end of the boarding platform, completely unaware they're about to get shot.

I stare for a moment,frozen in shock, before it hits me. I'm about to witness a murder.